


how does the sun even fit in the sky?

by Mercia



Series: Echoing Our Song (Avengers:Endgame-related fics) [2]
Category: Black Panther (2018), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: (mentioned: royal family), Angst, Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Spoilers, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Five Year Gap, Gen, Wakanda (Marvel)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2019-10-03
Packaged: 2020-11-22 15:54:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20876804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mercia/pseuds/Mercia
Summary: After the snap, it is not only the dead who hold their breaths.





	how does the sun even fit in the sky?

**Author's Note:**

> [Cross-posted from tumblr. Title from Hadestown.]
> 
> _ how long, how long, how long _

In the end, Okoye holds her breath.

The first thing to do is rebuild. 

And there's a lot to be done, mostly in the Border but still. It's work. There isn't much leadership needed because everybody knows that it comes first. That Wakanda comes first.

But this is Wakanda, even with half the population gone it takes less than a month.

Half the population. 

On paper, half of Wakanda gone is almost impossible to even fathom. What would that even look like? But that is what they are living in now.

In the early months, after rebuilding, the streets are stale, empty, silent except for every so often someone will venture out of their home for necessities. Or maybe just to look and find that there are no ghosts, no shades, just space and a deafening lack of noise where there used to be colour. Vibrance. Life.

And it's not as though there is nobody. Half the population is still half, still several millions. But nobody wants to go outside. In their houses, they can hide. They can pretend. 

_ Maybe mother and little brother are not home. But that is only two people. Little sister is still here. Father is still here.  _

_ There are just one or two things missing. _

_ Not half of everything.  _

And then foreign dignities start to request aid. There's a backlog of emails, letters, requests, _Wakanda_ _promised_. Nobody is sure who to open them. Who should answer.

The throne sits empty. Not a single member of the Royal Family have survived. 

The Ceremony is filled with gaps on the great rock. No tribe volunteers first. Eventually the chorus of humming and rhythmical chanting ceases. It feels as though everybody is holding their breaths. Waiting.

_ Come back,  _ thinks Okoye.  _ Come back. _

They don't, of course. 

The Water still falls the same as before, the loud and steady  _ shh-shh-shh _ and the gurgling as it tumbles over the edge and down. A continuous flow which has never stopped, never dried up, never frozen over. Just keeps going. Ever since she can remember. 

T'Challa could survive the fall. He had to. 

She's not sure if Wakanda can survive this, even though they have to. 

Nobody is here to challenge. The Jabari Tribe are here, but nobody is here to challenge. Not each other. They are here to mourn. To lick their wounds. For somebody to step up and so that Wakanda can rise again.

The Sun shines over the waters, over Wakanda, golden and warm even though every shadow and every missing silhouette seems colder ten times over.

In the end, nobody wants to believe that this will be the conclusion.

In the end, the tribes look to their protectors, their Dora Milaje, their General. Okoye was never made to wear a crown, to rule. But she was made to protect her country. Made to protect Wakanda.

Maybe the nation will never stop waiting. Maybe they never should. But the first step is to rebuild.

In the end, Okoye thinks — because  _ this _ can't be their end —  _ I still believe in Wakanda _ , and holds her breath.


End file.
